


did wander darkling

by tkillamockingbird (Theboys)



Series: milkteeth [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23419090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/tkillamockingbird
Summary: Lord Aegon Dayne is Jon's eldest and the blood of Targaryen Kings.He will never be anything at all.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: milkteeth [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1464472
Comments: 33
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air--
> 
> *Lord Byron 
> 
> hey folks, you'll definitely need to read [milkteeth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040047/chapters/45222805) to understand this sequel. There is another, much shorter fic in the series that is also helpful for characterization. As awful as quarantine is; hopefully, i'm providing you with some light reading material!

Aegon of Starfall

(311 AC)

Prologue

Father takes Aegon to Starfall two days after his tenth nameday.

Art tried to hide in the carriage, but although his hair is a shade or two darker than Mother’s, he was never any good at stealth.

Father’s hair is completely black but for a shock of white at his temple. He always promises that the gods gave him that shade after Art and Aegon attempted to stow away in his caravan just before the Ironborn Uprising.

Now Art is most likely sulking in the kennels with his direwolf Biare, wolf-hair as tawny as his lord’s. The wolves had been brought from up North at Mother’s request when she was expecting Aerea, but they’d not mated and given birth until after Valarr was born under the summer sky.

Aegon had been allowed to bring Bantis, his fur darker than the blackest night, with eyes of spun gold, and it went a long way to soothing his irritation at his first season away from the Red Keep.

Father thinks it’s high time he fostered at Starfall and Mother nods along and sneaks him sweeties with one hand as she holds Aelyx to her neck with the other. The babe is past his first year and well able to walk but he clings to Mother in a way that Aegon wishes he still could. He’s much too old for such frivolity, even though Mother sometimes pulls him atop her lap after he’s had a bad dream.

Father has long since stopped trying to engage him in conversation and Aegon is set on ignoring him until he leaves for King’s Landing when Father’s hand falls atop Aegon’s shoulder.

Father wears his heavy crown when he’s speaking on the steps of the Sept of Baelor or addressing the smallfolk on Mummer’s Eve, but today he is only wearing a circlet of Valyrian steel and his eyes look quite sad in his face.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Aegon says, feeling very small.

Father’s hand tightens momentarily and then he spins Aegon around so that his chest is to Father’s back.

“Do you see that?” 

Father points, resting his free hand in Aegon’s hair, his fingers curling into silver strands.

Aegon’s hair is longer than Art’s and he wants it to grow so that he’s able to tie it back from his face like Father does at meetings. Father always takes it down before he comes to say goodnight unless he’s away. 

Aegon doesn’t know what Father does when he’s gone away.

“It’s a castle,” Aegon says petulantly, his eyes darting over the Keep with interest despite his lackluster tone.

“Aye. Another castle, my Lord,” Father teases, his hand a comforting weight.

“Your people built their home here because this is where the path of a falling star led them.”

Aegon squirms uncomfortably. 

“My real father,” he spits, and Father drops to one knee, dust pillowing the air at his descent.

“Your father saved my life,” Father says, his face pinched. “He rode from the Red Mountains all the way to King’s Landing and he wasn’t even King. He didn’t have any men-at-arms or soldiers to help him.”

Aegon doesn’t want to meet Father’s eyes.

“I don’t know him,” Aegon says. “I don’t know him and I don’t want to. He’s not here.”

Father’s face looks somehow worse than before and his hand slides from Aegon’s hair to his chest. He pats it twice, his thumb running over the tallest dragonhead, the one meant to represent the Conqueror. 

Aegon’s very pleased to share the name with him. Art is named after Aegon’s mysterious father, and privately, Aegon believes that he got the better deal when it comes to naming.

“You’re right, my boy. He’s not here. But he would be here if he could be. Your mother--” 

Father’s voice grows tight and small and Aegon bullies his way forward, kicking up dirt as he slings his arms around Father’s neck.

“You don’t have to talk about my mother if you don’t want to. Septa Loren and Mother both said that we’re not to ask about it because it makes your face look hurt and you don’t like remembering her.”

Father’s big hand comes to rest against Aegon’s shoulder blades and he shakes with silent laughter.

Father doesn’t laugh very often because he’s very busy Being A King, Mother says, but Aegon can’t help but love it when he does.

“Aye, my face does get a bit strange, doesn’t it?” Father’s thumb comes to rest against Aegon’s cheek and he strokes the skin carelessly for a moment.

It makes Aegon feel very important when Father looks at him like this, as though Aegon is the only person in all the known world that matters.

Aegon and Art are learning about the Yi Ti and their Golden Empire, so the world is very big indeed.

“I want you to understand something. I loved my sister, your mother, very much. She meant a great deal to me and your father meant a great deal to her. It would...hurt her to see that you didn’t care to learn about him. Do you understand?”

Aegon plays with the hair at the nape of Father’s neck and shrugs, just a bit.

“I don’t want to make her sad,” Aegon concedes, “but did they have dragons?”

Father laughs again as he stands, rubbing at his sore knee.

“No, dear one, they had no dragons. But you know they had a sword made of starfire.”

Aegon remembers this story. His father held the Sword of the Morning, a great blade made of skylight.

“But no one knows where it is,” Aegon says, with no small irritation, turning down the great red path that leads to the pale Keep.

Father begins walking beside him, brushing dirt from Aegon’s shirt so that he doesn’t look unkempt when he meets his cousin, Lord Edric.

“Dark Sister was lost to House Targaryen for many years, Aegon.”

“I  _ know,  _ Father, but now you have her  _ and _ Blackfyre.”

Father takes Aegon’s hand in his and Aegon relishes in the hold before he pulls away, because he’s not a babe anymore.

Valarr is only three and Aegon and Art have to hold his hand or carry him if he’s being fussy. 

“Everything lost can be found, Aegon,” Father says distractedly, unhooking his cloak and passing it to Pyle.

Pyle smoothly drapes the red fabric over one arm and winks down at Aegon before schooling his face into nonchalance.

Aegon giggles and promptly faces forward when the great bronze doors of Starfall widen at their arrival.

The castle has several turrets, all of them thin and rising high into the sky. There are bright purple banners that swing in the breeze and Aegon recognizes the sigil of House Dayne. His house.

He plucks at the thread of his livery and bows once when Father nudges him.

“Lord Aegon Dayne,” the announcer says and Aegon thinks it strange to say his name in the open air instead of in the Great Hall where it echoes nicely against the walls.

Arthur’s name always comes first, a booming, “Prince Arthur Targaryen,” and then they have to keep very still until the adults leave and they can laugh and play at war.

Lord Edric has pale blonde hair and eyes so dark they look almost purple. He is tall and lean next to Father’s musculature.

Lord Edric bows deeply to Father and Aegon scrunches up his nose. If he had all the time back from when people bow and talk at Father and ask him for things, this season would probably already be over.

“Your Grace,” Lord Edric says, and Father’s hand comes down against Aegon’s head for a brief moment.

“A boy should know his father’s people,” Father says, and Aegon hates the way the words sound in his mouth.

_ I already have a father,  _ Aegon thinks hotly, but Septa Loren had rapped his knuckles one too many times for saying cruel things aloud.

Lord Edric looks down at him, his mouth curved in a crooked smile.

He looks younger than Father but his face seems kind. There are circles under his eyes and Aegon wonders if he’s gotten enough sleep.

“Are you tired because you have little babes, Lord Edric? My Mother says babes are a gift from the Mother but the Stranger lurks when they cry so much that she can’t sleep.”

There’s a charged stillness; Pyle’s face is a mask of stoicism in the background and then Father laughs again, one of his great bellied ones that make Aegon feel like hundreds of dragons.

Lord Edric laughs as well, slightly more subdued, and he ruffles Aegon’s hair the same way that Father does.

“Don’t touch my hair,” Aegon says stubbornly and Lord Edric removes his hand.

“My apologies, my young lord.”

Father scrubs a hand over his face and Aegon pokes him in the hip.

“I’m to stay all season?”

Father nods toward Lord Edric. “I am to visit Princess Arianne at Sunspear,” Father explains patiently, for the third time.

“Her father has just died and I’ve come to pay my respects.”

Aegon nods solemnly. He understands that. Mother told him that when he was a babe, the highborn folk came to leave him presents and wish him well after the death of his mother.

“You have to do these things when you’re King,” Aegon says to Lord Edric, and his cousin nods, hands clasped behind his black cloak.

Aegon looks up at Father and finds that Father is already staring back down at him.

Father is still quite tall (although Art hopes he will get taller sooner) and Aegon crooks a finger in his direction, which Father knows means that Arthur wants him to kneel.

Father does so without compunction, dirtying his breeches once more.

“You’re coming back for me, right?” Aegon whispers, his hand cupped around Father’s ear.

Father draws back and his face is quite serious, mouth downturned.

“I will always come for you, Aegon. I won’t ever leave you behind.”

Aegon’s ears turn pink but he nods once, very sharply, and doesn’t look up when Father rises once more.

-

Father leaves the following morn and Aegon stands on the balcony of his rooms in the east wing and watches him ride off on Vermithor.

Father travels very heavily, with half of his Kingsguard and a score of goldcloaks as well as a host of bannermen. 

He and Art always think it looks as though Father is riding off to war, although Mother’s face grows pale when they say that and she draws them onto her lap where they hide behind her curtain of red hair.

Now Art looks at the three-headed dragon banner as it swings in the breeze and he murmurs their names aloud like Septa Loren taught in history lessons.

“Aegon. Visenya. Rhaenys.”

They’re related to them, long-dead family, back when they rode dragons and the Conqueror laid waste to Westeros in his demand for fealty.

Aegon thinks of what it would be like to see the earth from the sky, holding on to scales larger than himself, the smallest of them bigger than Aelyx.

When Father and his men become a dot in the noonday sky, Aegon pulls away from the window and sets about opening his things.

There are a few chambermaids at his disposal but he unfolds all the shirts, breeches, and shoes his mother’s ladies packed until his finger collides against Doom’s hilt.

Father gave it to him the night before they left with the caveat that he said nothing to Mother about it.

Mother doesn’t like weapons but she never fusses when they are sent out to be trained by the master-at-arms.

Father teaches them swordplay and Aegon knows it’s because Father learned from Aegon’s long-lost father himself.

Aegon loves fighting with his blades most of all and he’s knocked Art into the dust so many times that Father has set him against the bigger boys in the Keep.

They’re always very careful with him until he knocks them to the ground as well, and then Aegon is well and truly allowed to fight.

Aegon knows he’s only to use steel when Father or Ser Edgerton is training he and Art out in the yards.

Art has Father’s small blade, a dagger called End, black like onyx and wickedly sharp. Aegon thinks Doom’s color might have suited Art’s fire-hair better, but he likes the look of the weapon in his hand. 

If he presses in with the tip, a little pool of blood rises on the edge of his thumb, a claret pool of pain. 

Aegon examines Doom shortly before sheathing it and tying it to his waist by its small scabbard.

Lord Edric is married to Lady Staunton of Rook’s Rest, a pale thing with hair as dark as a raven’s wing. She’s had two little girls, and one of them is younger than Aelyx and only makes the bubbling sounds that babes are wont to make when attempting to learn words.

Both children have Lord Edric’s violet eyes and when Aegon comes down to sup that evening, Lord Edric tells Aegon to call him Ned, or cousin.

Aegon is accustomed to the noise and chatter of his siblings back in the Red Keep and the solemnity of the meal makes him itch for open air and the swing of steel in his fist.

“Did you know my father, then?” Aegon asks tartly, his cheeks flushed when he thinks of Mother’s disappointed face.

Lord Edric--Ned--smiles, although it’s tight.

“Aye. I was a boy of four and ten when he was exiled to Essos. He was a Kingsguard to your grandfather. The bards sing of their friendship still.”

Aegon stabs at his roast pheasant before remembering his manners and carving at it instead. 

“They say he was the greatest swordsman in Westeros. Is that true or is it just a part of the stories? Father swears upon the Seven that it’s so, but quietly, so Mother doesn’t hear him cursing.”

Ned smiles at him brightly, although it’s tempered by that look adults sometimes get when in Aegon’s presence. 

“Aye. House Dayne--your House, little lord, was built on the grave of a fallen star. We made our sword from its light and it chooses who is allowed to wield it.”

Aegon crams a bit of mushroom into his cheeks and remembers to swallow before speaking.

“Art will get Blackfyre when Father dies or passes it into his care,” Aegon says, “but the starsword won’t go to anyone at all?”

Ned motions for a servant to pour more burning-wine and Aegon wrinkles his nose at the smell. He and Art vomited twice each after they snuck a drink and then they made Jace drink a half-cup before they were caught.

“When we were Kings of the Torentine, it sat at Starfall until the new Sword of the Morning was born. Dawn always knows.”

Aegon can feel his interest waning. He enjoys the mystery of House Dayne’s sword but he knows that his father took it with him when he was sent away. The odds are small that anyone will ever see it again.

“May I go and explore after supper?”

Ned is distracted; Lady Dayne sweeps into the Great Hall with her daughter Ysabel and the smaller one whose name Aegon doesn’t know.

Ysabel has three fingers stuffed into her mouth and she is chubby in the way of small children. She smiles around the digits, two dimples in her fat cheeks, and Aegon thinks of Aerea and how her hair is silver like the edge of a blade caught by sunlight.

Aerea’s hair is so long she can sit upon it and she looks nothing like this child here. 

Aegon makes a funny face at her regardless and she shrieks in muffled laughter.

Ned is already reaching for her with a fond look and he nods carelessly in Aegon’s direction.

“Take your men with you. The mountains cast a shadow.”

Aegon wants to climb to the top of the pale tower he saw when they first rode in; it hangs into the mouth of the Summer Sea, situated onto a giant heap of rocks.

His men will protect him but his septa won’t allow him to go if she catches wind of it.

“Aye,” Aegon says, shoving the last of the bread pudding into his mouth and pushing his cutlery away.

He rises from his chair mostly soundlessly and sweeps into a bow that Mother would be proud of. Art is better at courtly niceties but Aegon can be fairly charming when he tries.

Ysabel kicks her legs from her perch on Ned’s knee and Lady Dayne looks a bit harried as she passes the other babe to her wet-nurse.

“Good evening, then,” Aegon mutters, fleeing the room as his men follow suit.

He’s going to write and tell Art how angry he is at Father, but not until after he’s explored the Keep. 

Aegon knows that there’s an entrance in the back of the castle that leads to the east wing but he isn’t quite certain if he can find it again in the setting sun. 

Aegon rushes down the corridor, his feet strangely loud against the smooth moonstone that lines the floor. Ser Harte brandishes a torch in his left hand and he keeps pace easily, shrouding Aegon in light.

“I understand that you intend to explore Starfall, my lord?”

Aegon throws his door wide with a bang and rushes past the ironwood desk and toward the armoire.

His clothes are spilling from within and Aegon strips off his supper linens and tugs dragonhead livery over his head instead.

Aegon’s fingers fiddle with the patch of red thread and he examines the banners in his rooms, purple and white swathed over bare walls.

Ser Harte waits at the entrance to Aegon’s apartments and so Aegon moves quickly, digging through the messy pile of clothes before he finds the linen that Mother had stitched with care just before he left.

_ Just in case, Eggy,  _ she’d said, and Aegon pulls it on, looking down at where the white sword and the falling star cross against his chest.

Aegon’s never worn any Dayne livery in all his life but he thinks that’s why Father sent him here. There aren’t many Daynes left to wear the colors.

“I’m ready,” Aegon calls, hooking Doom to his hip as he makes for the door.

-

It’s surprisingly cold outside and the sky is covered by a swath of clouds. It seems it might storm.

Mother would demand he wear a set of furs over his clothes but Mother isn’t here and that means that Aegon is allowed to do whatever he pleases.

Ser Harte trails behind him with a handful of his best men. He’s the captain of Aegon’s guards and he always sneaks Aegon and Art sweeties after they’ve come in from lessons.

The captain is mostly soundless in the rear and Aegon appreciates that. You cannot kill a monster if you’re so loud that it knows you’re coming.

Aegon tumbles over a slope of red, the dust dark and cloying in the twilight.

Uncle Ned said that House Dayne built the Keep on the grave of a fallen star.

“I want to find the grave,” Aegon says, apropos to nothing, and Ser Harte is used to such outbursts, and so gives no response.

Aegon’s journey leads him towards the Tower he first noticed when he and Father rode up to Starfall’s gates.

Even from here, Aegon can hear the crash of the Summer Sea against the base of rocks and he runs toward the sound, almost consumed with curiosity. 

Art would try and race him to the top, were he here. 

There’s a dull stab in his chest every time he thinks of Art. Maybe Aegon will return home to find that his brother has made a new best friend. 

Aegon shakes his head clear of the thought and listens for the sound of chainmail behind him as he climbs the series of hills that lead to the only door in the whole Tower.

The rest of the tower is made of the same pale moonstone that lines the Keep. 

The handles are shaped like the tail of a star and Aegon puts hands on one and digs his feet in the dirt in preparation to pull.

The door is very heavy and only moves an inch or so but Aegon’s palms tighten in frustration.

“Lord Dayne, do you require help?”

Ser Harte comes close behind him, firelight illuminating Aegon’s struggle.

His palms hurt, as the head of the handle is composed of an eight-point star. Aegon digs his feet in further, rucking up dust.

“Perhaps a little,” Aegon admits in frustration.

Ser Harte doesn’t laugh; he never does. He passes the torch to the knight closest to him and pulls open the door with a newly freed hand.

Aegon steps back, dusting himself off for lack of anything better to do with his hands.

“After you, my Lord,” Ser Harte says and Aegon’s embarrassment is forgotten as she swings his way inside.

He doesn’t know what he expected to find.

It is shrouded in a blanket of darkness created by the loom of the Red Mountains.

Ser Harte’s hand settles gently against the nape of his neck.

“Perhaps it would be better to return tomorrow, my Lord. When the sun has risen in the sky and you can see all the things you wish to report back to Prince Arthur.”

Ser Harte’s voice is teasing but subdued and Aegon shivers at the sound. There is a winding set of stairs that seems to lead to the very top of the tower, curving iridescent in the moonlight.

There’s a great window up top, he knows. It’s said that you can see the whole Summer Sea perched here, at the edge of the island.

Aegon nods sharply to himself.

“I want to explore the outside where there’s more light,” Aegon presses. “I’ll save Septa Loren the worry and wash up before bed after, I promise.”

Aegon skirts around his men even as they turn in formation to follow behind.

The outskirts of Palestone Sword are not much better illuminated than the indoors. Despite this, there is a jagged arc of light that encircles the jagged base of the structure and so Aegon rushes toward it, his feet almost soundless against the packed earth.

The sky lights up above them, a silent crack of lightning in an otherwise calm evening.

“My Lord,” Aegon hears from a distance, Ser Harte’s voice almost muffled by a sudden wind, “it’s become dark! Slow and wait for me ahead!”

Aegon whips his head around to better catch sight of Ser Harte but he finds nothing but blackness behind him. It’s unnatural and he stumbles in its wake.

The sky bursts into white above once more and Aegon continues to run forward, scuffing his boots against hard-packed earth.

The oval of light expands the closer he grows to the source and the voices behind him reach a muffled roar and then

nothing at all.

Aegon finds himself within the enclosure of light itself and he tumbles to his knees at the abrupt loss of sound. He catches himself on his palms and tries to make himself motionless enough to think.

He can’t even hear the tumult of his own breath.

The light is brighter than the noonday sun, than the moon at the peak of Palestone, and the earth trembles beneath Aegon’s hands.

The tremors turn to vibration and the ripples become more localized until Aegon’s right palm feels as though it’s burning, as if flame is tearing the very flesh from bone.

Aegon’s fine hair sticks to his forehead and he wants to scream for the first time, for his mother, his father, for Art.

He braces his weight on his knees and rears backward so that he can grasp at his right wrist with his left hand.

He pulls up and away from the shaking of the earth and beneath his palm he finds the source of the commotion.

It’s a stone.

Flat and shining iridescent, Aegon curls his fingers are around the brightness, digging red soil beneath his fingernails.

The sound returns with a crack and the explosion sends Aegon reeling flat on his bottom.

His breath is choppy to his own ears and Ser Harte comes to a standstill beside him, dropped down to one heavy knee.

“It is not often that I demand things of you, my lord,” Ser Harte says tightly, “but keeping yourself from certain death would be one of those things.”

Aegon’s body still tingles and he thinks of what Art would say, his grin wide and open, cheeks pink.

“But--but did you see? Did you see the light?”

Ser Harte rises with a disgruntled noise and gently pulls Aegon to standing with his free hand.

“It’s dark, my lord. And I’ve most like twisted an ankle chasing after you in these hills.”

This last is said gently, and Ser Harte rests a hand upon Aegon’s sweaty hair as he guides them both back toward Starfall proper.

The strange stone feels cool in the clutch of Aegon’s palm. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Aegon of Starfall

319 AC

-

“You look as though you’ve sucked on something sour,” Art says, balancing End’s blade on the tip of his index finger.

The silver sends an arc of light winking up toward the high ceiling of Mother’s solar, casting the commissioned mural of Winterfell in sharp relief.

Aegon hasn’t seen that Keep since he was a boy of four and ten. The Stark banners flutter in the frozen breeze, the head of a direwolf turned sharply to the side.

“I’ve had my fill of the ladies sent to court in the hopes they can one day warm my bed,” Aegon says shortly, leaning forward to slap at End’s short hilt.

Art dances backward and knocks the hilt into his palm before sheathing it entirely.

“You’re more like to cut my hand off by accident than you are to open a highborn lady’s legs,” Art snorts, unimaginably calm.

Art’s hair catches the firelight in the ethereal way it always does. His hair was longer when they were boys, curling down his back like Mother’s. 

Aegon’s palm flexes on the brocaded armrest, fingers digging into the muted Targaryen red of the fabric.

He still remembers when Art cut his hair for the first time. Jace’s small fingers dug into Art’s plaited braid and unraveled it as he wrestled his older brother to the ground in a decisive win.

Art was always a gallant loser but only if he knew he could not have changed the outcome.

Aegon recalls the way dusky red had fluttered down to cobblestones until Art’s hair sat just below his shoulders.

“Again,” Art had demanded afterward, and Aegon had painstakingly plucked the fine hairs from Doom’s hilt.

Now Art’s hair is braided tightly away from his face and he snaps his fingers before Aegon’s eyes.

“Have I lost you, brother?” Art says, pausing in his lazy path from fireplace to Mother’s ironwood desk in the corner.

“No. Never,” Aegon says, running a hand through the silver on his head. “I wonder why they’ve called us here and not Jace,” he adds, and Art’s jovial smile falters.

“Jace is a child,” Art says, not without affection. “He and Aerea are probably beneath the Keep now, cobwebs on their knees as they eavesdrop.”

Aegon does not smile. “Hence why Father called us to the Holdfast.”

Art diverges from his path to drop to his knees beside Aegon’s seat. He takes Aegon’s calloused hand in between his own and runs the rough edge of one thumb against old wounds.

“He could want to tell us we’re his favorites from the comfort of Mother’s chambers. We don’t know,” Art says cheekily, Tully-blue eyes unwavering.

“You don’t look anything like a dragon,” Aegon murmurs, running his thumb underneath Art’s lashes. 

Art tilts his head into the cup of Aegon’s palm like the cats of the Red Keep when they search for cream.

“Aye, I’ve been known to ride you like a dragonlord,” Art whispers, and before Aegon can reply, his brother is standing, hands clasped loosely behind his back as the door to the Holdfast swings open.

Mother enters first, her hair coming loose from the intricate bun she wears to supper every evening. There are bits of mashed pheasant stuck to her bodice, which means that Aelor has sat on her lap again for the meal.

“Aelor requests that both of you come and read to him before bedtime,” Mother says, nodding gratefully up at Father as he takes her by the elbow to guide her to the armchair opposite Aegon’s.

She spreads out cream-colored skirts and steeples her chin in the palm of one hand.

“My little Eggy,” Mother says, motioning for Aegon to come closer.

Art steps slightly to the left and Aegon rises from his seat to drop to a kneel in front of Mother.

“Mother,” Aegon murmurs.

“You’ve darkened from the Dornish heat,” she says, tucking a fine strand of hair behind his ear.

“Yes. Well, Princess Arianne demands that I spar with her before she commands my company at the Water Gardens for the remainder of the day.”

Aegon keeps a straight face but he feels Art knee him in his back nonetheless.

“You sound less than pleased,” Father interrupts, and Mother pats him gently on the shoulder before she reclines.

Father is holding his crown in his hand, a great monstrosity he only wears whenever he entertains nobles he wishes to make a firm impression upon.

It is the crown Father’s grandfather wore before he was cut down by the Kingslayer, a heavy thing made of red gold.

Mother hates the look of it. It is the marker of the end of an era.

“Aye. Well. The Lady of Sunspear has many daughters. And a great many of them summer at the Water Gardens.”

Art clears his throat and Aegon rises himself, rubbing at his knee.

“I only wish to know why I have not been permitted the same luxuries as my brother,” Art says winningly, ducking down to press a kiss against Mother’s hair.

“You would have a host of little Targaryen bastards running around the Keep like those kittens you fed into cats,” Mother says complacently, her small hands folded into her lap.

Aegon snorts and even Father huffs out a laugh as he crosses over to Mother’s desk to set his crown down.

His hair has more streaks of grey than it did when Aegon was a child but it has not yet managed to cross into his beard.

“I only ask to be sold to the highest bidder like the portly calf I am,” Art adds, commandeering Aegon’s seat with a flourish. He flings his legs akimbo and Aegon steps over them to lean against the gold overlay that covers the chair’s spine.

“Contrary to Art’s belief, I did not invite you here to discuss marriage or the prospect of your future offspring,” Father says. 

“I have waited until Aegon and his men returned from Sunspear to update you on the Ironborn.”

Art abruptly sits up, crossing one leg over his knee.

“Balon Greyjoy was killed by his brother Euron on Pyke little more than a fortnight past.”

Aegon drops a hand against Art’s shoulder before his brother can rise from his chair.

“Euron Greyjoy is a madman. He casts his salt wives into the sea once they’ve given him sons he often doesn’t bother naming!”

Aegon adds more pressure to his grip, fingers almost white.

“Lord Euron is an old man,” Aegon says, “and his brother Balon older still. They’ll be doing no pillaging any time soon.”

Father glances down at the crown of Mother’s head. He watches as she twists her kerchief back and forth between reddened palms.

“Sansa--” Father begins, but Mother waves his concerns away, tucking a ringlet of hair behind one ear.

“Your brother is right, Art,” Father continues, “but Balon has three sons in hiding and there is little doubt that Euron has cut off all avenues of escape.”

“Father, forgive me,” Art says, “but I don’t see how the squabbles between the great lords of--of a miserly collection of rocks concerns us?”

Father’s mouth almost twitches into a smile. “You and your siblings were tutored by the greatest minds in Westeros, Art. I beg their teachings not to fail you now.”

Art’s ears flush red and Aegon steps between Father and his brother. 

“Their ships. You want access to the Iron Fleet,” Aegon says.

“Aye. That is the short of it. The Greyjoys took no part in Robert’s Rebellion, seeking peace until the bitter end. Lord Quellon died an old man.” Father pauses. “There is no love lost between us and the Ironborn. My father--your grandfather, Rhaegar, believed that to side with no one was craven.”

Art nods sharply. “Aye, that’s so. They bet nothing and so lost nothing.”

Father drags Mother’s desk chair away from wood and adjusts the wine-dark cushion before he settles into it.

“Your grandfather knew he needed to solidify his power after he won the Battle of the Trident. So he betrothed my Aunt to a Lannister and sent her to Casterly Rock when she was of age. He linked Lannister and Manderly and even gave Uncle Viserys a Baratheon wife.” Father sighs, leaning forward in the seat until his elbows are supported by his knees.

“My Father sent Lord Quellon a box.”

“And what was in it, Father?” Art asks.

“Nothing at all. Not even so much as a cobweb,” Father says, his face impassive. “Ser Arthur always said he and my father did a great many things well and a great many things poorly after the Rebellion ended. They were young.” Father pauses. “This was one of the poor things done.”

“We fostered Greyjoys at Winterfell,” Mother says quite suddenly, as though she had been thinking quietly this entire time.

“The youngest was as old as my brother Robb and they were good friends until he set sail back to the Iron Islands, a man of eight and ten. There was a--a kinship between the northmen and the ironborn. Mayhap the last bond they hold.”

“What have we,” Art waves a hand between his person and Aegon’s, “to do with this?”

“Old Lord Quellon was a peaceful man. He saw what came of his non-action and died. His son Balon held no love lost for us. But we had the loyalty of ships at Driftmark and Dragonstone and so he made no advances on the mainland.”

“And now?” Aegon says, restless from his position between Father and Art.

“Euron takes no spoils from his pillaging. He gives the plunder to his bastard sons and his crew and he takes salt wives and land. Euron enjoys taking land and he enjoys taking revenge. He waited through all my father’s life and a good deal of mine to exact his revenge on his brother. I cannot hope against hope that his desire for blood has been satiated.”

Art does rise this time, his eyes alight with the familiar glow of adventure. It was a look that had often caused them to be swatted by Septa Loren, who still swats even Aelor on occasion. 

“You’re sending us to the Iron Islands. How many men are we to take? We can be ready by first light, can’t we, Egg?”

Aegon takes his brother by the arm. “Peace, Art.”

Art grins over at Aegon with restored good humor. “I’ve no desire to go off killing and playing at war,” Art says carefully, “but Father means for  _ something _ to be done.”

Mother stands abruptly, kerchief pressed to her mouth.

“I mean for Aegon to go alone, Art,” Father says carefully, and he looks almost old when he says it, as though the weight of all things has become too heavy.

“Egg--Aegon to go alone? You mean for my brother, my--my better half to travel across the continent without me?”

Aegon’s already nodding into Father’s eyes. Father so rarely pleads but he’s doing so now, and Art is too worked up to see it.

“Aye, I’m to go alone, Art. You are the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. His firstborn.”

Art is angry now, something that happens so infrequently that none of the three in the room know how to handle the eruption of emotion.

“You can’t ask it of me, Father. You’d have me sit in the Keep, behind the high walls of King’s Landing and what? Eat roasted pheasant and rock Aelor on my knee at night? Play nursemaid to my siblings? You’ve four sons, Father. You don’t need me.”

“Stop it. Stop it right now,” Mother says, and Father looks at them both with reproach as he rises and turns in Mother’s direction.

“Arthur,” she sighs, and Art drops down before her once more, one hand clutched in her skirts the way they used to do as children before bed.

“My baby. I was so sick as I carried you on the journey back South. You were not yet born when your Father brought your brother back to me. And now look at you. In such a hurry to die.”

Art looks stricken and even Father makes an aborted sound.

“I’ll go alone, Mother,” Aegon says, dropping down before her on Art’s other side.

“No, you will not,” Mother smiles resignedly, placing a hand on each of their heads.

“Aegon will leave with all his men-at-arms and Art will disguise himself as one of them and ride along in the very back of the procession, nevermind the fact that he rides like a prince with hair the color of flame.”

“No,” Mother continues, “you will go together. As in all things.”

Art looks up from Mother’s lap. 

“Father?” Art says, and even Aegon thinks that he looks young, with his big blue eyes.

“Aegon is the superior swordsman,” Father says, after a minute pause. “He has bested you since you were children.”

Aegon flinches but Art does not waver, nodding his head in Father’s direction.

“Aye. It will be good that I plan to stay directly in his shadow, then.”

Father opens his mouth as though he wants to say something further but then closes it and says nothing at all.

-

Aegon jerks awake at a loud noise and jostles the crown of red hair resting against his breast.

Art makes a sound like a mewl and Aegon cannot resist pressing a kiss to his brother’s forehead.

“Lord Dayne, there’s been a summons for you!” The voice from beyond the door comes, and Aegon spares a groan for the indignity of the early morning rise.

He flings his quilts just wide enough to expose only himself to the cool summer air and parts the curtains that sheath his bed in darkness.

There’s been a chill recently, Aegon thinks. Mother would tell him that winter was coming. 

As it is, he tucks the red and black blankets back around Art’s slender body and drags a linen shirt on over his breeches.

He opens his bedroom door and leans against the wood, arms crossed over his chest. Art is blocked from view and he finds Ser Harte’s youngest boy holding the summoning scroll like an offering.

Donnel is a boy of seven and ten, born just before Jace, and he has the same dark grey eyes as his father before him. Donnel’s eldest brother is Lord of the House after Ser Harte’s own brother died with no issue.

Donnel is clumsy when unfocused but deft with a sword and deadly with a bow. He’ll be knighted soon and Aegon will need to break in a new squire.

He plucks the scroll from Donnel’s fingers and the boy rocks back on his heels.

“Have you a dragon or two to spare? The drawbridge to the Holdfast was not yet lowered and Ser Bar Emmon demanded a stag for safekeeping, lest he ‘throw me ‘cross the moat.’” Donnel winks good-naturedly and Aegon cannot help but laugh.

“Bleed me out of coin and sense, will you, then?” Aegon says, lifting his shirt to scratch at his stomach.

He unties the ribbon holding the scroll closed with his teeth and scans the missive written in Uncle Viserys’ hand. 

_ The King requests Lord Aegon Dayne’s presence in the Tower of the Hand. _

Uncle Viserys’ spares no extra effort on flourishes and Aegon’s good humor suddenly vanishes.

“Let me pull on something neither my father nor my Uncle will scoff at,” Aegon says. “Wait for me in the hall, I need to find some stags.”

Aegon closes the door behind him and chuckles to himself at the way that Art has curled into the warm space that Aegon left behind.

Aegon chooses all black, a doublet and breeches with black linen beneath. Doom sits on the lower shelf of the armoire, its hilt a burnished red worn smooth over time. He remembers when the grip was almost too large for his hand.

Art makes another sleep-heavy sound and Aegon sweeps Doom up into his palm and its sheath. 

“Where are you going?”

Art’s voice is slurred and Aegon feels the dull ache of warmth that suffuses his chest whenever he is allowed to witness Art at his most docile. 

Art is charming and personable where Aegon is reserved. Aegon lives for the moments in between. 

Aegon drops to the edge of his bed and pushes the velvet curtains to the side so he can better see Art’s face. 

Art’s auburn hair fans out against the embroidered images on the pillows, glaring hues of gold, red, and black. 

“I’ve been summoned,” Aegon says, his mouth quirked in a half-smile. 

“By whom,” Art says, reaching up one slender hand to tangle in Aegon’s thicker fingers. 

“Father. And dear old Uncle Vis, if I’m not mistaken.”

Art’s eyes remain closed but he smiles as though in sleep. 

“Let me find some of my livery amongst your things. I’ll come along.” Art makes to rise, the linen sliding down to expose his collarbone. 

Aegon presses a hand to his chest and pushes him gently back into the pillows. 

“They have only asked for me, Art. Father is already disinclined to allow us to travel together. I would rather not anger him further.”

Art’s brow furrows, much as it did when they were boys and he could not figure out how Aegon routinely swept his blade from his hand. 

“You will tell me what has been said?” 

Aegon laughs and takes a length of Art’s hair in between two fingers.

“Aye. When do I not? Your eyes are as clear as the waters of the Summer Sea. When have I not done your bidding?”

Art laughs then, too loudly for their predicament, and buries his face beneath the bedclothes.

“Go then. Find out what His Grace demands.”

Aegon stands and walks to the desk on the opposite end of the room. It is made of the same tree from which Father commissioned Mother’s desk, but his has a painstaking carving of Meraxes flying over Hellholt covering the majority of the right side.

Rhaenys is perched on her back and Aegon runs his fingers over the worn dragonscales.

“You wanted it done with the scorpion bolt hurtling toward them. Father was going to allow the artist to carve it. You. Seven years old with a battlefield on the desk where Septa Loren made us practice our letters.” 

The sheets rustle as Art speaks and Aegon only hums in acknowledgment.

The stags rattle as he opens the drawers in search of coin.

-

“Your Grace--”

“Donnel, I am a Lord. An estranged one, at that. There are a slew of other royals in this Keep to whom you can bequeath that honor.”

“You’re the eldest born of the King and Queen. I’ll call you whatever I like. It suits you,” Donnel says, playing his role in the familiar argument.

Aegon nods to Bar Emmon as he and Donnel cross the drawbridge. The goldcloak bows once, sharply, and Donnel holds out a hand in expectation. “I suppose my stag has made your pocket warm enough, then?”

Aegon snorts out a laugh.

“Leave him in peace, Don. Come quickly; my Uncle is not a man who tolerates fools.”

Donnel mutters under his breath and adjusts his doublet. 

Aegon enters the middle bailey with Don hot on his heels and passes the Sept with nary a glance at the Seven altars within.

The doors are open so that worshippers may enter but Aegon knows that his siblings worship before the other nobles in the Keep are permitted.

Aegon can see Aelyx’s dark head as he, presumably, leans down to answer one of Aelor’s many questions.

“...and he was very unhappy to have had to squeeze behind your smallclothes--Your Grace, have you been listening for even a moment?”

Aegon pulls up short just in front of the entrance to the Tower. The battlements are crenellated and if Aegon squints, he can just make up the goldcloaks patrolling at the top of the one closest to the library.

“Aegon,” Donnel hisses, and Aegon bows his head to meet Donnel’s dark eyes.

“Do you want me to wake His Grace on my way back to your apartments? Your Lady Mother often comes for tea and lemoncakes at this hour of the morning. His Grace was displeased when once I pitched him into your armoire when the servants came to clean your rooms.”

Donnel raises a brow at the memory and Aegon instinctively touches a hand to Doom in agitation.

“I’ve no desire for anything to become...less than discreet,” Aegon says, and Donnel tips his head in acknowledgment.

“Very well, then,” Donnel says. “In the last of my duties, before you need me later today, your sister approaches from Sept which is quite the cue for me to take my leave before I embarrass myself yet again.”

Aegon speaks so much less than Donnel that he oftimes has trouble keeping up with the flow of information. It is to this end that he is still trying to parse out Donnel’s last words and is startled by the soft touch to his elbow.

Aerea is smiling behind him, her hair pulled away from her face with two elaborate braids that meet in a small knot at the back of her head.

The rest of her hair falls sweetly on her shoulders and Aegon remembers that his younger sister is no longer a child to be coddled, but a girl of five and ten.

Her purple gown is three shades lighter than her eyes and she crosses long sleeves over her chest as she looks up at Aegon.

“So, you return from Dorne and decide to spend your first evening back with Art, Mother, and Father,” she accuses, and Aegon cannot help but smile.

“Aye, little lark. I have been hiding from you since the sun rose this morning.”

Aerea flushes with indignation. “You jest. We never see Art anymore, but Jace and I thought we might see the both of you before Father sends one of us away again.” Aerea pauses. I’m to be sent to court at Sunspear, most likely in the hopes that one of the Martell boys catches my eye.”

Aegon tugs on a ringlet of Aerea’s hair and she slaps his hand away with fingers much paler and slender than his own.

“And you think Father didn’t send me there for more of the same?”

“Father won’t have you in Dorne for the rest of your days. Born in Dorne, died in Dorne,” Aerea teases, and Aegon pulls her close enough that he can bury his nose in her hair.

Aerea is the only girl. It bothered her more than she would say when she was younger, but now she relishes the position in a Keep full of men.

“Father will not have his only daughter far from him. Not now.” Aegon’s breath ruffles the crown of her head and he mentally chastises himself as he feels her stiffen in his arms.

“You know more than you bother to tell me,” she complains, and Aegon knows she can feel him smiling.

“Aye. But I am not King. Our Lord Father is clay in your very capable hands, princess.” Aegon releases her so that he can sink into the sort of sweeping bow she loved when she was a babe on fat legs.

Her cheeks are flushed, with either indignation or healthy color, and she opens her mouth but is preemptively cut short by a familiar cadence.

“As much as we would rather shirk our responsibilities, your Father and I are quite busy and in need of your presence, my boy.”

Uncle Viserys locks his arms behind his back and smiles warmly to Aerea in greeting.

“Apologies, Uncle. I waylaid him,” Aerea says, sinking into a short curtsy.

Uncle waves his hand. 

“Aerea, you spat upon my cloak when you were a babe as we swore you to the Seven on your first nameday.” Uncle pauses, “which clearly makes you my favorite. Run off and tell Jace that we’re holding a secret meeting in the Tower of the Hand.”

Aerea’s cheeks are now definitely flushed with embarrassment but she presses a kiss to Uncle’s cheek just the same as she sweeps her skirts in her fists and runs in the direction of the outer yard.

Uncle Viserys’ smile fades as he watches her off and he jerks his head to Aegon in greeting.

“Charming as the love for your siblings is,” Uncle says dryly, “there’s little time to waste.” Uncle’s voice lowers and he drops a hand to Aegon’s shoulder as he guides him toward the winding staircase.

“Euron has organized the Ironborn. The fighting is no longer contained to Pyke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter we visit our favorite lovebirds! per usual, the walls are closing in around me/i'd love to know your thoughts


	3. Chapter 3

Jon

319 AC

Jon has six sons. 

His eldest sits before him, elbows resting on the curve of his knees.

Jon remembers Aegon at six, at twelve, at six and ten, his hair wavy and silver down his back.

Now his boy sits in front of the largest window, a large oval with gold overlay that stretches wide so that Jon can see above his head and down into the godswood below.

Aegon’s small dagger Doom is sheathed in black leather, oiled for ease of exit.

Jon shifts his weight in his own chair and gestures for his Uncle to begin.

Viserys is aging, and it pains Jon to see his father in the man’s face. He has crows feet at the eyes but his hair is still as silver as the day he was born, kissed by light.

His eyes are pale lilac and he steeples his hands underneath his chin, his elbows resting on the large Linden-made desk. 

“Why have you not called my brother here?”

Aegon meets Jon’s eyes first and then they dart to Viserys’ in respect.

“All respect due His Grace, the princeling of Dragonstone--” Viserys begins, his voice dry in the way Jon had hated as a child.”

“Uncle,” Jon says shortly and Viserys inclines his head and takes an abbreviated sigh.

“Art is not the man your father and I chose.” Viserys pauses. “You are the best swordsman we’ve seen since the Sword of the Morning. Your father.”

Jon’s eyes dart to Aegon’s face. His son flinches minutely, a motion that Jon would miss if he hadn’t spent all of his life watching Rhaenys’ son grow up before his eyes.

“You’re like to tell him all as soon as we adjourn,” Viserys adds, and the tips of Aegon’s ears turn red. 

“Euron has sailed to Banefort from Pyke. I imagine he’ll have no trouble subduing the Hooded Kings,” Viserys says tightly.

Jon rises, clapping a hand on Uncle’s shoulder. Viserys wears a doublet of the darkest green over top a black doublet. Jon can barely tell the difference between the two.

Aegon sits back as Jon rises, his eyes following Jon as they once did when he and Art were small and thick as thieves.

“The Ironborn are seafaring people,” Jon says. “They will not risk an ambush from land.”

Aegon’s left hand passes over Doom’s shaft on impulse. 

“Then why send us--me, to the westerlands at all?” Aegon pauses. “Would it not be better to call his bluff?”

Jon peeks up at the slant of the sun in the highest window. Soon they’ll need to light the golden candelabra on Viserys’ desk.

“I don’t know if it is a bluff at all. I cannot risk Euron sailing to Kayce and Casterly Rock thereafter. Lannisport has ships aplenty but neither galley nor seaman as experienced as the ironborn.”

Viserys’ waves a hand in disgust and Aegon’s head whips between the two, silvered hair dancing like light in motion.

“He’ll run afoul of the Fair Isle before he can make land at Kayce,” Aegon muses, his fist clenched at his side.

Jon spares a moment for thought. Aegon is no more than a boy. A shadow of the suckling babe he brought back from the Dornish heat.

Viserys looks up, four fingers glistening when customary rings. There are three for his children and one for his wife, though Jon has long since forgotten the individual significance, if he ever knew.

“Aegon--” Jon begins, but Viserys inclines his head in Jon’s directions. “Let the boy finish, if it please Your Grace.”

Jon gestures for Aegon to continue.

“Lord Farman will make a meal out of the Ironborn, if he can get his hands upon them.” Aegon says, rising from his seat. The chair clatters backward but Aegon pays it no mind.

“Lord Sebaston is dying,” Viserys says conversationally. “Their ships are few. But a minor threat.”

Aegon steps so close to Viserys’ desk that he can breathe upon the crown of his great-uncle’s head, were Viserys looking downward.

Viserys’ eyes meet Aegon’s violet ones. Aegon’s eyes share the hard vibrance of an amethyst and it’s times like these that Jon can scarcely remember his little boy.

“Lord Sebaston has sons,” Aegon says, his voice firm. “Marq would sooner throw himself into the Sunset Sea than see Euron Greyjoy take one of his young daughters.”

“Clever,” Viserys says, and for a moment, his face looks melancholy. He blinks twice and points down at the map on his desk.

Jon strides closer to the pair and drops a heavy hand on Aegon’s shoulder.

“I demand much of you, son,” Jon says, and Aegon’s head darts up and then back down.

“No more than I demand of myself,” Aegon answers.

“I need you to secure the Banefort,” Jon says, pressing the tip of his finger to the westernmost point on the map. “You must keep the fighting contained to land. Tomorrow morn I am to ride for Casterly Rock. I have sent a raven to Lord Aemon  Lannister. I need the ships at Lannisport in case you are unable to hold the ironborn.”

Aegon drags a finger from Banefort to the Crag, past Castamere and Oxcross, all the way to the Rock.

“And what if he refuses my terms,” Aegon says softly, head bowed.

Viserys presses three fingers to his mouth and wisely remains silent.

“Then I want you to kill him,” Jon says.

Aegon stands to his full height and Jon realizes that he and Aegon can stare eye to eye now.

“You’ve given me the men-at-arms and your blessing, Father,” Aegon agrees, his eyes somehow warm and trusting.

“I’ll give you better than that,” Jon says.

“If you must do this thing, you’ll have Valyrian steel to do it with.”

-

Viserys is silent as they descend the stairs together, his mouth set in a thin line.

Jon can see Aegon marching toward the Holdfast, spinning Doom on the edge of one finger. The Harte boy follows close beside, only an inch or so lacking in height.

He says something that makes Aegon laugh and Jon watches his son throw his neck back so that his hair shivers down his spine.

The wink of Doom’s blade distracts him until Uncle nudges him pointedly.

“He reminds me so much of her sometimes,” Viserys says, and Jon sucks in his air.

“Aye,” Jon says. No one speaks of Rhaenys. His brother--sometimes there are whispers about Egg in the halls. Jon can still hear his laughter sometimes, echoed in Aelor’s screeches as he runs from room to room in the Keep.

But nobody mentions Rhaenys Targaryen. 

_ The King is an even-tempered man,  _ they say.  _ But the King is like to sever head from body if he hears slander about his sister. _

“Determined,” Viserys continues, nodding to the goldcloaks who open the double doors at the bottom of the staircase.

Twilight filters through and Jon fingers the edge of the circlet resting upon his hair.

“Aye,” Jon repeats, his tongue heavy. 

“Daenerys’ sons are loyal,” Viserys sighs, hands clasped behind his back when it becomes apparent that Jon will not take the bait.

“I should think so,” Jon laughs without humor. “I gave them the Rock and no halfling to control the mountain of gold they sit on.”

“ _ Your  _ gold, Your Grace,” Viserys says, “you could have had Daenerys remarried. A Martell union would have served you well. But you were a young king. And you gave her a life.”

Jon hmms. “You are not a flatterer, Uncle. What have you to say?”

“She owes you a debt. I love my sister. I raised her until Rhaegar commanded I have her sent to Casterly Rock, to wed that--that thing. Appeal to that love, Jon.”

Jon presses his lips together as their feet echo through the Great Hall, the chairs lined against the perimeter, cloth-of-gold winking in the waning light.

Viserys twists a ring around his thumb.

“Aemon is married to the Royce girl. She has a babe suckling her teat as we speak. Daenerys will have no desire to disturb her peace. I’ll grant you that.”

Jon nods.

“The fleet at Lannisport will not be enough to match the Iron Fleet,” Jon says, pausing at the exit that will take them to the Outer Yard.

Jon knows the whitecloaks are waiting just behind the heavy panelling of wood and stone and so lowers his voice accordingly. 

“You’ll need the Redwyne Fleet,” Viserys says plainly, his face unreadable.

“I did not want to hear it said,” Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I will sail to the Arbor once I have been well met at Casterly Rock.”

Jon’s shoulders are tight around his ears and Viserys drops a hand on the back of his neck the way he used to do when Jon was very young.

“It is a poor hand you were dealt, Your Grace,” Viserys says. “You should not go on such a journey alone. Jacaerys--”

Jon straightens his shoulders, Viserys’ hand falling from its perch.

“No. No, Uncle. He will need to stay with you. Shadow you, day and night. There is no one I trust to run my kingdom before you, Uncle, and none other I would wish for my son to learn from.”

Viserys is never one to linger on kind words. He nods sharply but looks disinclined to give up his intentions just yet.

“Take Daeron with you. He is a fine swordsman but a better archer than his brother by half. Harte will protect you by blade, Daeron by air.”

Jon thinks of Daeron Targaryen, his younger cousin and a man grown, with a wife and children of his own.

“Will it put your mind at ease, Uncle?” Jon asks in an attempt to make light.

“Aye. I could not save my brother at his last. I saw him alive to fight, and Darkstar pressed his blade through Rhaegar’s mouth and brain. I will not see his last child slain.”

None of them were there at Father’s last, Jon thinks, the pain still a heavy, albeit muted, thing.

He thinks of the things he would do to protect Aegon.

“We meet with the small council on the morrow. Have Daeron join.”

Viserys bows so deeply at the waist it looks as though he’s like to topple. 

Jon takes a deep breath and steps into the night.

-

When Jon arrives at the intimate evening meal, the candelabra is dull, as though Sansa will soon have the servants cut the light entirely.

Aelor is perched in Sansa’s lap, his fist clenched around the gnawed end of what appears to be a black sausage.

There is a strawberry pie sat in the center of the table, one of several, apparently untouched for Jon himself.

Sansa bounces her knee and Aelor squeals, reaching up to tangle a free hand into the loose curls tumbling down around her face.

“Ser Jor says that I may--Mother, listen to me! He says that I may use the wooden sword in the yards if Father says it’s alright!”

Aelor’s silver curls stick damply to his flushed forehead and it’s Jon’s youngest who first notices his entrance at all.

“Father!”

Sansa looks up at his cry and Jon finds that he can’t keep his eyes off of her anymore than he could when Lord Stark rode her to the Red Keep to deliver her as Egg’s bride.

She looks lovely, though she has a bit of mashed pie stuck to her bodice.

“Aelor, darling. Mother’s knees aren’t made of iron,” she chastises, and the little boy squirms down entirely.

“Father, Father, Ser Jor says that I may learn how to swing the flatsword,” Aelor begins, reaching up a hand to tug on Jon’s breeches.

“Aye, so that you might best Aegon in a fight, little man?” Art says, his grin wide and mischievous. His arm is draped carelessly over the spine of Aegon’s chair, his heavy ring clinking against the dark nightwood.

Aegon himself looks up with a reserved smile, propping his chin in his hand as he examines Aelor’s excitement.

“Soon you’ll be old enough to fight me yourself, little Lor,” Jon says, and he swings his boy upon his hip.

The boy is quickly becoming too large to carry around but he is the youngest in the Keep by several years and often (and loudly) laments his inability to see over the taller bodies around him.

“Aegon will teach me to fight you,” Aelor continues, his lavender eyes almost near tears due to the excitement.

“Lor, come to me, let Father eat a bite, will you,” Aerea calls, her hair twisted into an elaborate knot at the crown of her head.

The soft tendrils framing her face make her look like the babe he held for the first time so long ago. She has her mother’s sharp cheekbones and she hides her wince well as Aelor scrambles down and into her skirts.

“Jon, darling, take a seat, won’t you?” Sansa says, standing and pressing a hand to her lower back. Her dress is as green as a sprig of mint, with cloth-of-gold embroidered around velvet bell sleeves.

She looks tired but radiant and one of her ladies-in-waiting leans over to whisper in her ear. A freckled Ambrose girl from the Reach, Jon thinks tiredly.

Jon’s squire Tyr darts forward, a slender shadow at his side. He waits quietly for Jon to deposit his crown and pulls out his seat at the head of the high table with an astonishingly strong hand.

Sansa leans forward to press a kiss against Jon’s brow.

“Come to our rooms when you’ve supped,” she says. “I don’t care who Viserys would have you meet with at this hour.”

Jon takes a moment to inhale the sweet rose fragrance of her hair and nods.

“Come to me, Aelor,” Sansa says, and Aelor complains loudly as Sansa takes him by the hand and leads him from the room as her ladies and maids follow at a more sedate pace.

Aegon and Art sit with their heads pressed together, silver and flame twin suns.

Jon clears his throat as a serving woman delivers a bowl of beef and barley stew, still piping hot.

Aegon looks up first, his eyes trained on Jon with unmistakable focus. Art is slower and he drags a loose hand through those curls that so remind him of Sansa.

Jace angles his head next, his pale hair well above his ears. He is more stocky than Art and already of an eye with both he and Aegon. His eyes are violet but he has Rheagar’s aquiline nose and Jon’s jaw. He tugs on Aerea’s hair and nods once to Jon.

“I am sure Art has told you that he and Aegon are to ride to Banefort on the morrow,” Jon says dryly, and Aerea snorts into the palm of her hand.

“Father, you wound me,” Art says, swirling his glass of Arbor Gold in one hand.

“I can trust you with my life, Art, but you are incapable of keeping secrets between the four of you,” Jon notes, swirling his spoon beneath chunks of beef.

“Father, shouldn't I go in Art’s place?” Jace asks, his low voice cautious.

“And what, little brother dear,” Art spits, “ruin my chances to become the feature in a ballad?” Art dips a crust of bread into the soup at hand. “So young to be so selfish.”

Jace removes the circlet of yellow gold from his head. 

“You were born but a year before me, brother,” Jace says, his brow crocked in mirth. “And Father, Art is the heir. I fostered at Hightower for years. I know the westerlands better than he.”

Art sits up entirely, all amusement leached from his skin.

Aegon places a palm on the back of his brother’s neck and Jon reluctantly abandons his cutlery in anticipation. 

“You, a greenboy, riding west to play at war. You, who were suckling at Mother’s teat when Balon Greyjoy sent his ironmen to raze Ashemark to the ground. You, who spend more time near Aerea’s skirts than with us in the war room.”

Aegon’s fingers are almost white with the strain of holding Art back. Art’s hair tumbles across his forehead and Jace rises to his feet, deceptively quick to anger.

Aerea wraps a hand around his wrist in supplication.

“You’re absolutely right, brother. It is my  _ right  _ to serve the kingdom when you’d much prefer to stay in bed and filch Mother’s lemon squares--”

“Be still,” Jon says, rising so quickly that his own chair clatters backward. He is not prone to anger but neither are his children prone to wrath.

“It has been decided. As your Father and your King, I should think you all would have enough sense to respect that.”

Aegon clears his throat and the steel in Art’s spine appears to dissipate.

“You will hear no more arguments, Father,” Aegon says firmly, looking between his siblings with the admonishment only the eldest can bear.

There is a light pause and Aerea laughs, breaking the tension.

“Aelyx has ridden back to Horn Hill this morn and Valarr wrote to send his love from the Vale. Val writes the best of any of us,” Aerea says, adding this last on as though it is an afterthought.

Jon considers his younger two, fostering so far from home. Aelyx, ten years old and showing progress with a bow far faster than any of his siblings before him. 

He has hair the color of the moon and the Tully eyes, an anomaly, considering the strength of his Targaryen blood. 

Then there’s Valarr, a boy of ten and two, his hair as dark as the raven‘s wing with Stark grey eyes to match. 

“What does Val say, darling? Before your Mother reads the entire scroll to me this evening.” Jon looks over at his only daughter and considers how annoyed Rhaenys would have been to be made peacemaker.

Aerea is nothing like her Aunt. She embroiders with Sansa of her own volition and has never shown any interest in the War Room. 

Jon watches as she grips Jace’s hand underneath the tablecloth.

The black sausage turns to ash in his mouth.

“Val says Lord Denys is in good health. Lord Robert apparently screams the Eyrie awake at night with his night terrors, though,” Aerea says, stabbing her fork through roast pheasant.

Jace stands abruptly, his head inclined in respect.

“May I be excused, Father?”

Jon wants to say no, if only because he so rarely sees his family together. But Jace is young and he feels as though he’s been slighted. Jon rubs a hand across his face. Sansa will admonish him for how poorly he handled the situation.

“Yes,” Jon acquiesces. “I will come see you before I leave.”

Jace nods sharply and pinches his crown between two fingers. 

Aerea looks between Jace and Jon with trepidation and Jon sighs deeply and gives up all attempts at pretense.

“You as well, my love. I would rather Jace not set fire to the curtains around his bed again,” Jon says and Aerea stands, ivory sleeves dipping precariously close to strawberry filling.

“Thank you, Father,” she says and she makes to tug her brother from the table, though she comes up to below his shoulder.

Jace whistles sharply and Jon bites back a smile at the snuffling noise from underneath the table. 

“Dao, to me,” Jace says and the direwolf rises to languidly pace in front of him, almost disrespectful in her casualness. Her fur is a soft brown and she blinks grey eyes in their direction.

Art snorts as Jace exits and makes a half-hearted attempt at covering the sound. Aegon looks as though he wishes he were anywhere but the table and Jon is exhausted.

“Far be it from you to tease your brother when you and Aegon have never been separated more than a fortnight,” Jon says, standing and motioning for Tyr to come and gather his things.

“Jace looks up to you. You will be his King one day. It’s past time you acted like it.”

Art’s slender face pales at his tone.

Jon sighs, walking down the length of the table until he can see the top of their heads, much as he used to do when they slept nestled together like flowers.

“You leave to war on the morrow. Jace worries like a man near his grave.” Jon places a hand on Art’s head. “Make your peace.”

Jon turns on his heel and does not linger for an answer.

-

Aelor is asleep on Sansa’s chest when Jon finally makes it back to the Holdfast.

Jon can only laugh as he leans over the two of them and sees Aelor’s bright curls tangled into Sansa’s red hair.

Aelor’s thumb is tucked loosely into his mouth and for once he looks at peace, and not like the terror of the Keep.

Jon pulls his son into his arms and the boy goes sleepily, rubbing his warm little face into Jon’s neck.

Jon squeezes Aelor tightly on impulse. It’s been so long since any of his children were small enough to allow him to do this.

Sansa sits up almost immediately when Jon removes Aelor’s warm weight and Jon is quick to step closer, soothing the wild fear in her eyes.

“It took so long to get him to sleep,” she yawns, twisting so that her legs dangle from their bed.

“None of the others were quite so clingy,” Sansa admits, standing so that she can press several kisses to Aelor’s head.

“Here, give him to Septa Loren,” Sansa says, opening the door to her solar that connects to the antechamber. 

Septa Loren appears so quietly that Jon almost cries out.

“Your Grace,” she says, nodding once before plucking Aelor from his grasp.

She raised Jon and his siblings. It was she that Jon first called Mother before she swiftly corrected him.

“This one will need to be weaned from Her Grace,” she says, placing a wrinkled hand on the back of Aelor’s head.

“It will do you no good to foster him only to have him crying for his Mother’s attention.”

She turns away then, humming a lullaby under her breath.

Sansa laughs from behind him, her mouth hidden by her hand.

“Septa Loren’s right,” she sighs, pulling the pins out of her hair. 

“His siblings do not have the time for him that they used to,” Sansa laments.

Jon tugs her body into his, wrapping his arms around her trim waist. 

“Aye, that’s so. And yet, I miss them at that age. Would that I would keep Aelor small forever.”

Sansa laughs into his chest. 

“Of course you would. The children come to you at mealtime and before you send them off to war.”

Jon stiffens, drawing back. Sansa does not meet his eyes, her small fists tucked in between her sternum and his chest.

“I never had any choice in the matter, Sansa. Art is a man grown. I cannot stop him from following Aegon, even to the Stranger himself.”

Sansa nods once, terse. “I know that. I do. But it does not mean that I’m not afraid.” She rears back to catch his eye. “That I’m not angry at the way things must be.”

Jon exhales through his mouth and kisses her forehead.

“You know I ride to the Rock on the morrow, for the ships at Lannisport,” Jon says, and Sansa detaches herself from him entirely.

“You’re nervous,” Sansa says, fiddling with the lace on her chemise.

“Lannisport is not over large. The ships may not be enough. I cannot send my sons to battle without the might of my Crown behind them.”

Jon steps past his wife to settle on their bed, shoving the dark green curtains away from his person.

“I will need to access the Redwyne fleet. I will need to speak with Horas.”

Sansa frowns. “He is a callous sort. He will want recompense for his pains. His father before him would have been an easier mark,” she admits, crossing her arms over her breasts.

Jon bows his head.

“Uncle and I have discussed that.” Jon pauses. “He has two sons, Sansa.”

There is silence.

When Jon dares to look up from his knees, the room is empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the wait, i am defending my thesis tomorrow and thought I better actually prioritize my degree for once l m f a o
> 
> thanks so much for anyone who comments, this fic means a lot to me and i'm so happy anyone at all is enjoying it
> 
> also: [i'm located here if you want to squeal in real time](https://brosamigos.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

Aerea

319 AC

“I don’t see how you could yell at your brother so,” Maris says, braiding her flaxen hair into one long tail so that it rests against her chest.

Aerea resists the urge to roll her eyes and drops her sampler down in disgust.

“Dāria, to me,” Aerea says, and her direwolf rises from the canopied bed to slink past Maris and into Aerea’s open arms.

“That wolf is bigger than you. It’s easily as big as the King’s stallion,” Maris says, eyeing Dāria with mostly habitual trepidation.

“She could be a war horse,” Maris adds, when Aerea does not look suitably chastised.

“By the Gods, Maris, she saved you from ruin when you let Lord Caron slide a hand up your skirts.”

Dāria’s fur is the color of sunburnt wheat, with the eyes to match. She pretends to ignore Maris’ hand as it strokes lovingly through her fur.

“I only said she was overlarge,” Maris gripes good-naturedly, “not that I mean to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Maris winks at the direwolf with her good eye. Maris has one healthy eye, a watery green pool that she likens to a swamp, while the other is slightly cloudy due to a fever she suffered as a child.

Aerea has known Maris since they were no more than five and Father called Lord Serrett to court to serve as master of coin after the old one died of night terrors in his sleep (or so they tell it).

“She  _ has _ helped me avoid the corner of many a table in the Great Hall,” Maris says dryly, standing and fairly climbing over Dāria’s warm body to get next to Aerea.

“All I mean to say,” Maris continues, adept at holding a conversation with only herself, “is that all of your brothers--and the Mother protect them--could be Kings one day. And they say Prince Jace looked as though he had taken a lashing when he left your rooms earlier this evening.”

Aerea’s ears blush pink and she drags the comb more fervently through Dāria’s fur.

“I only told him to make peace with our brothers. It does not become him to play at having his feelings hurt.”

Maris snorts and drags her fingers through Aerea’s silver hair, ostensibly to get the imaginary tangles out.

Maris often says Targaryen hair feels like silk between her fingers, but she has only ever played with Aerea’s hair and so has a small sample size to work with.

“He’s a man. His feelings are fragile and so is his ego. It seems you’re unfit to stroke either,” Maris says, leaping neatly out of the way as Aerea swats her with the long end of one rose-colored sleeve.

“Wait until my brother hears you’ve been fantasizing about his royal  _ cock--”  _

Aerea screams as Maris dives on top of her; the two of them are tangled together by skirt and hair when Aerea’s door opens with a soft creak.

Aerea glances toward Dāria but the wolf remains unperturbed, having crossed to the opposite side of the room to lay on the pile of furs that sits under Aerea’s first royal portrait, commissioned when she was a few months old.

“Should I come back another time?” Jace says, his eyes dancing but his mouth flat.

Maris makes a strangled sound and rolls off until she hits the stone floor with a hard thump.

Aerea winces in sympathy for her back.

“Aye, you great oaf,” Aerea grunts, “come and help a lady from the floor.”

Jace enters the room fully, his silver hair combed back and gelled away from his face. He has no great love for his crowns, unlike Art, who appreciates the ‘artistry,’ but he wears them all the same.

Jace nudges Aerea with the edge of one leather boot and extends a hand to Maris instead.

“Queen Maris,” Jace says, bowing low at the waist the way he used to when they were small and Aerea forced Jace to play King and Queen of Westeros with her.

Maris’ face begins to turn alarmingly red and she catches Jace’s hand so that he can pull her fully upright.

“Aye, I see how it is. Father will be greatly displeased if he has to lose his only daughter and be stuck with the likes of you,” Aerea says, and Jace releases Maris’ hand to grab her by the middle and forcibly stand Aerea on her own two feet.

“My apologies for interrupting,” Jace says, nodding at Maris, “but Father would like to see us.”

Aerea makes an agreeable sound and turns to her vanity, catching her brush up in her hair.

“Oh, let me,” Maris says, brushing fur from her bodice. “You may move like a shadowcat while you dance but you’ve never been any good with your hair in a pinch.”

Jace smiles down at Aerea fondly, pinching her nose and laughing as she rears backward out of habit.

“‘Rea, be still, or you will look as though you’ve been mauled.”

Aerea holds steady and wrinkles her face in agitation as Maris separates two strands of hair so that they collect in soft waves against her face. Half of her hair is in a single plait down her back while the rest is unbound and gathered in a thick mass beneath it.

“Would that I could cut some of this mane,” Aerea mutters, and Maris slaps her shoulder with one small hand.

“From your mouth to the Stranger’s ears,” Maris admonishes. “Would Aegon the Conqueror no more slay the head of his dragon?”

Aerea bites her lower lip in amusement. 

“They say the dragon has three heads--” Jace begins, exchanging a private smile with Aerea as he prepares to rile Maris up. 

“Aye! Three heads. Keep the two heads I see  _ intact,  _ then,” Maris commands, and Aerea raises her eyebrow. 

“If you’ve quite finished, Your Grace, we’ll be leaving,” Aerea says, and Maris’ face begins to edge toward that less-than-endearing shade of blood.

“These are your apartments,” Maris mutters, sweeping the end of her skirt up and over her forearm. Maris is even shorter than Aerea, which is a feat, and her long skirts have often been a hindrance.

“Good-bye, Dāria, I hope you bite the next royal ass that gets in your way,” Maris says, and Jace holds open Aerea’s door so she can sail through, most likely to bother Jayde or another of their companions.

Jace turns to watch her go and then drops to one knee, slapping his palm against his thigh.

“Dāria, to me,” he instructs, and Dāria flicks up an ear and cocks her head lazily in Aerea’s direction, as she always does when Jace gives her a command.

Taking Aerea’s silence as the acquiescence it is, she stalks forward until she can lay her giant golden head on his unoccupied knee.

“Wait outside, Dāria. Howl if anything is amiss,” Jace says, running a broad hand in the fur between her ears.

The direwolf is as imperious as a queen, which is why Aerea had chosen her name when she was a child small enough to ride her like a pony. Dāria slinks out of the cracked door and sinks onto her front paws as Jace closes it behind her.

“Sister,” Jace says, and Aerea tucks the flyaway strand of hair behind an ear.

“Father would never send you to summon me,” Aerea says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“We have been tricking company into leaving by saying it for years. Why stop now?”

Aerea waves a hand.

“I do not want to talk to you if you haven’t given serious thought to what I said this evening,” Aerea says, dragging out the chair to her desk and sitting down heavily. 

Her sleeves drag dangerously close to her inkpot and she pulls both it and quill out of reach.

“You don’t understand, Aerea. You couldn’t. You have never had to fight for your seat at the table. It has never been difficult for you to stand out.”

Aerea stands, walking toward the rocking chair that sits facing the long-dead hearth. She used to serve her timeouts in this chair as a child, sat at Mother’s knee with a sampler in her hand.

Father had them carved while Mother was expecting, six pale weirwood chairs and a seventh for Aegon, carved before he could crawl.

Mother says the weirwood holds northern blood. Like the wolves, Father has tried to bring as much of the North to King’s Landing as he could.

“I don’t understand.” Aerea says quietly, sitting in her chair and setting it to rock with one slippered foot.

Jace looks uncomfortable, his brows lowered.

“How could you? You don’t know what it means to compete.”

“To _ compete? _ ”

Jace makes up the distance between them in three large strides. 

He is already of a height with Father, Art, and Aegon. The latter three are already imposing, which means Jace could grow even still.

“I’ve displeased you,” Jace says, and Aerea makes a noncommittal noise. 

“I have never been in competition. All of you, every last one of you could be sent to war, or fostered across the Reach, or made into knight of the Kingsguard, or made into the very King of Westeros, whom I would have to pay fealty to on bended knee--and you say I do not understand.” Aerea pauses.

“That I could not.”

“Aerea, please. Listen to me--”

“You’re right,” Aerea says casually, folding her hands together so that they disappear into the collapsed bell curve of her sleeves. Jace is kneeling on the velvet edge of her skirts, crushing the cloth-of-silver underneath his breeches.

“You are right. There is no possible way I could understand. But I have six brothers. I don’t wish to lose any, neither to stupidity or the blade.”

Jace bows his head and lays his hands over top Aerea’s knees as he used to do when he first outpaced his sister in height and weight.

His hands are rough from swordplay, a constant drive to hone his skills that Art, the true Prince of Dragonstone, has never fully shared. 

Art’s most deadly weapons have always been his words.

Aerea is still trembling from the low-banked fire of her rage. As though she has never thought it would be easier to be born a boy like her brothers.

She places her cool palms into Jace’s calloused hands all the same, and drops a kiss to the silvered crown of his head. 

“You are a dragon,” Jace says lowly, his voice muffled by the superfluous fabric of her gown. “Though Art has the temper.”

Aerea’s cheeks pink and then her eyes flick up as she hears Dāria growl mutely before the direwolf is silenced with a sharp yip.

Jace is on his feet even faster than Aerea, his sword hand flying to his sheath of his small blade.

He nudges her behind his bulk and she can’t help but shudder at the sharp rap at the door.

“Your Graces, The King requires Prince Jacaerys to the council chamber.”

Jace deflates at the sound of Tyr’s voice and bends down to return the kiss to Aerea’s forehead. 

“It looks as though you will get your way sooner than later,” Jace teases and when he opens the door to follow Tyr, Dāria looks just as unperturbed as she had when Jace first gave the direwolf her duties.

-

Aerea can sneak most anywhere in the Keep, a product of the education she received at the hands of her elder brothers when she was much smaller than this.

The issue is that Father knows all the secret passageways too, something he and his own siblings discovered.

Aerea has never been seriously reprimanded or punished but she also knows when to leave well enough alone. There are certain matters she wants no knowledge of. Rest will already be difficult to find when Art and Aegon have left the Red Keep.

Even so, the urge to follow Jace is high. Mother often says that they should have been born of the same womb at the same time, and sometimes Aerea is hard-pressed to disagree.

She knows she won’t be able to sleep this night without her brother, and Maris’ father has been keeping her closer during the evenings ever since he heard rumor of Lord Caron taking her maidenhead.

Aerea sets a hand on Dāria’s head and scratches softly as she closes the door to her solar behind her.

Her nightrail has elaborate pearl buttons done up to her neck and the surcoat over top is an assurance that nothing unseemly peeks from underneath. 

The attire itself is a bit stuffy but Aerea knows she’s not supposed to have left her rooms at this time of night to begin with.

The night is when Dāria looks most alert, her sharp ears pointed forward. She never allows Aerea more than five inches of space between them, lest she carefully lock her jaws around Aerea’s dress to pull her back.

“Aye, Mother,” Aerea laughs, producing a small cut of pork from the inner pocket of her surcoat.

Dāria eats with the same haughty grace that she does everything else, plucking the meat from Aerea’s palm with a snap of her sharp canines.

The Holdfast is dreadfully quiet at night. 

As a child, Aerea had always wished she could sleep in the Greater Keep with her friends, but an unsavory attack disabused her of that notion very quickly.

Aerea makes her way to the exit, knowing she will never be able to cross the drawbridge undetected. 

Abruptly, Aerea finds herself nudged to a halt and Dāria releases a sharp whine under her breath.

Aerea’s hand tightens in Dāria’s fur.

“What is it, girl,” Aerea whispers. 

The drawbridge is down and the heavy ironwood doors that seal the Holdfast from the rest of the Keep are ajar.

Aerea can hear voices and she thinks that they may belong to a member of the Kingsguard until she peeks round the edge of the door and sees no telltale white cape.

She does recognize the lean figure of Art and the slightly taller, but far more muscular frame of the eldest, Aegon.

Aegon’s hand wraps around his hilt in such a casual manner that Aerea doesn’t even think he realizes that he’s doing it.

His hands are scarred, even more so than Jace’s. 

Aegon came from the womb swinging his blade, Aerea thinks.

“You’re not listening to me!” Art hisses, stabbing a thin finger into Aegon’s chest. He is immovable.

Aerea’s cheeks heat at the thought.

Aegon looks down at Art with something like bemusement on his face. 

“Aye, that I am, little prince,” Aegon says, closing the space between them so that he may loom further.

Art crosses his arms before his body.

“I am coming on this journey because we have never been separated. Not in the truest sense.”

Aegon is silent, which, Aerea thinks, is nothing but characteristic of him.

“You have a gift with the sword. There has been none better since your father before you,” Art says bluntly, and Aerea cannot help but falter as she strokes Dāria’s fur.

Aegon’s body tenses and Art steps so close it’s as if they are breathing the same air.

Art smiles in the dark, a winsome thing, the likes of which make many a maiden wish it were she who was the recipient.

“The Conqueror never traveled anywhere without his sister-wives,” Art says, catching his tongue between his teeth.

Aegon laughs, low and throaty.

“And what does that make you, brother?”

Art opens his mouth to respond as Dāria raises her snout and whines high in her throat.

Aerea drops to her knees and wraps her upper half against Dāria’s head. The wolf nuzzles once and then captures Aerea’s sleeve in between her teeth in an effort to drag her away from the door and back the way they came.

Aerea presses her palm and an ear as close to the cracked door as she dares.

“It’s Lord Commander Oakheart,” Aegon says after a pause, and Aerea can see the wink of his blade in the moonlight.

Aerea braces her weight against Dāria’s side as the wolf guides her through the halls with her superior sight.

“Some companion you are,” Aerea says, and Dāria huffs once before butting Aerea in the shin with her snout.

“I know, I know. Silence,” Aerea grumbles, and she ignores the remembrance of the familiar feeling she’d had in the pit of her stomach when waiting for Art’s reply.

-

When it comes time for the leaving, everything outside of it becomes nothing but waste.

Mother tells her that the small council hopes to evade detection by staggering Aegon and Art’s great host. 

The latter half of their bannermen will ride west three days following their departure, so that they may serve as aid if needed.

Mother mutters about placating old Lord Ryger and tells Aerea to button her jacket if she wishes to say her goodbyes in time.

Aelor is uncertain about the cause of the turmoil, and quite tired at the early hour, and so he sits on Mother’s hip, although he has far outgrown the position.

His silver curls mingle with the sapphires sitting against Mother’s throat and she kisses Aelor’s head to hide the tears in her eyes.

Art and Aegon are dressed simply, although warmly. They speak with heads tucked closely together, Art’s head forever tilted up.

Father and Jace are nowhere to be seen. 

Aerea assumes they have already made their farewells.

“Would you like a kiss for the road,” Aerea says smartly, taking her skirt into a fist so that she can faster reach her brothers.

Art looks down upon her fondly, in the same aloof, but loving fashion he’s given all her life.

“From my only sister?” Art says, “Quickly, before Eggy ruins the moment with his need for melancholy.”

Art sweeps her into his arms and dips her so lowly that her hair tumbles loose from her wide hood to spill upon the stones of Mother’s solar.

Aerea cannot help but laugh and her face is flushed with high color when Art rights her.

“Be serious a moment, Art,” Aerea says, stretching onto her toes so that she can throw her arms around her brother’s neck.

Art’s doublet is the color of warm earth, and she knows he laments the necessary dearth of color.

“Take care of Mother,” Art says into the crown of Aerea’s hair. “You know how she tries to be everything.”

Aerea is nodding even as Art releases her, and then she’s craning her neck to meet Aegon’s sharp gaze.

The weight of his attentions flusters her, as they always have.

Aegon ducks down to hug her, swinging her in the air for a moment before placing her on the ground.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he says shortly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Aerea turns to hide the warmth in her cheeks and holds out her arms wordlessly for Aelor.

Mother passes him over and he goes with little fuss, his thumb loosely cradled in his mouth. Aerea breathes in the little-boy smell of him and hides her face in his curls.

Art and Aegon dwarf Mother entirely, and she disappears into the bulk of their conjoined embrace.

Whatever is said makes Mother rubs at her eyes, and Aegon brushes Mother’s red hair away from her face.

Aelor gives her side a restless kick.

“I want to say bye, ‘Rea,” he murmurs, and Aerea jostles him.

“We do not kick, Lor,” she says absently, passing her brother to the two oldest with some mild trepidation.

It’s too early for Aelor to summon his regular spirits, and so he is docile and cherubic as Art peppers his face with kisses and Aegon tickles at his sides.

Aegon passes Aelor into Mother’s care, and then there is no more time at all.

“We’ll take the passageways, Mother,” Aegon says, as he is closing the clasp on his cape.

Art does the same and then they are gone from the room, so silently that it’s as if they were never there.

Aelor grows restless when neither Mother or Aerea move, and eventually he squirms his way to the ground and tugs on Mother’s skirts.

“May I go to the kitchens for sweeties? Cook is making the morning meal,” Aelor pleads.

Mother looks at Aerea and then down at Aelor’s pink cheeks. With Art and Aegon out of sight, they are as good as forgotten in the little boy’s mind.

“Yes, darling, but no running,” Mother chides, opening her door so that Aelor can push his way through.

The room is so heavy once Aelor takes the joy with it and Mother takes her by the arm and guides Aerea from the solar to her bedchambers.

Father usually sleeps here but Aerea knows that his side of the bed has long grown cold.

Mother has several heavy furs from the forest of Qohor on the bed, and a beautiful ermine pelt that Aerea used to secretly covet for her own wedding day.

Father gave Mother free reign of the decoration and Aerea remembers sitting on her Mother’s knee to learn the story behind the beautiful tapestries imported from the North.

The colors are dark greens and blues and one of the largest shows the tale of the King Who Knelt.

Aerea feels chilled looking at the cloth-of-silver lining the walls.

“Come and sit with me,” Mother says, patting the edge of her bed.

The bed has several steps leading up to it and Aerea used to relish the climbing of them when she was still small.

Now she settles quietly, tucking unkempt silver hair behind an ear.

Mother’s own hair is simply braided away from her face, but for the sweet ringlets that often frame her forehead.

Mother reaches out to rub Aerea’s hair between her fingers.

“I remember when you were born,” she says absently, her eyes focused on the motion.

“Jace came forth with dragonhair and I saw you, with your hair of ice,” Mother says, with a muted laugh.

“I was so frightened you wouldn’t look anything like me,” Mother says, moving to hold Aerea’s chin between two fingers. 

“But you do. I worried for naught. You have Tully blood in you, and Stark blood, and all of the dragonblood in the world could not change it.”

Aerea reaches for her mother’s hand.

“You always said we were both dragon and wolf,” Aerea says, uncertain of where the conversation is headed.

“I did. And I have been more fool than both,” Mother says, and suddenly, her blue eyes look very hard.

“We may soon be at war, Aerea,” Mother says. “War requires sacrifices of us all. Your father needs a war fleet.”

Aerea nods, her hand squeezing tight over Mother’s small one.

“If your father can get the fleet he requires, then you will gain a husband,” Mother says gently.

“Do you understand, child?”

Aerea blinks.

“Oh,” she says shortly, and the room seems to swim before her eyes.

“Then I am to be married.”

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully there's still interest in this long-awaited sequel
> 
> in the time of love and quarantine P L E A S E feed me your thoughts


End file.
